


where the evening splits in half

by boeser



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, To the Max, Unrequited Love, don't remember writing this but was told that it was ok to post, friends to almost lovers, thx, truly sad boi hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 11:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boeser/pseuds/boeser
Summary: Jack settles for Buffalo and Buffalo settles for him.Love is all about compromise, anyway.





	where the evening splits in half

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i have literally NO recollection of writing this. i have had 4ish concussions in my life so that's probs why. anyway i wrote this over a year ago lol i dont know why i deleted it but here it is. here's wonderwall

They say that with age comes wisdom, but at eighteen years old, Noah Hanifin is still a fucking idiot.

Jack goes down to Boston and works out with Noah, and in turn gets Charlie. Jack likes Charlie, but he doesn’t like the way Noah acts around Charlie.

Jack watches him from across the weight room as he makes fuck-me eyes to Coyle, who is as oblivious as ever. Coyle’s a nice guy, but he’s… old. He’s twenty-five compared to Noah’s aforementioned eighteen, and he has a down payment on a house. He’s… legit. Which is why Jack can objectively understand why Noah has such a fat crush on him. It’s fine and everything, but Jack doesn’t think Noah should be so obvious about it.

Jack tilts his head and takes account of the way Noah flushes when Coyle puts his hand on the small of his back, and the way Noah’s body is always somehow tuned to Charlie’s.

Jack ends up throwing a sweaty towel at the back of Noah’s head, but Jack is too far for Noah to suspect it’s him, so Noah ends up frantically turning around, looking like an idiot. Coyle is facing Jack’s direction, so he knows that it was Jack who threw it, but he simply shrugs when Noah asks if he saw who did it. Coyle laughs at Noah’s confusion, and his smile is bright and it’s the kind where you can see it in his eyes.

And Jack already did but like. He understands.

 

*

 

Jack goes to development camp and, well, it… goes.

It’s kind of an understatement. Development camp is fun, or as fun as it can be. The Sabres have one of the most loyal fanbases, so Jack is both surprised and unsurprised when almost twenty thousand people show up for a scrimmage. Jack is like, thirty percent sure that not even that many people would show up for a Coyotes playoff game. If, of course, they ever made the playoffs.

Jack’s team loses 5-2 to Sam’s, and Jack’s not that worked up over it. He played well, and that’s all that matters. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he got sent back to Boston. He would actually prefer that if anything. But he already signed his ELC, so he’d be sent to Rochester, which actually would be the end of the world. If Buffalo is the worst city in New York, Rochester is it’s ugly, idiot, cesspool cousin. Jack isn’t sure if people in Rochester have teeth. He’s pretty sure they’re the type of people to pour their milk before their cereal, though.

He doesn’t like to kid himself. Jack knows he wasn’t going to go first. Wanting and knowing are two different things. McDavid has been hailed The Next One since he could form thoughts. And as much as the media liked to create the rivalry narrative, Jack couldn’t care less about McDavid or any Canadian for that matter. He’s a nice guy, but McDavid doesn’t need Jack to like him; he needs Jack to push him. He doesn’t like to kid himself. Jack knows he was the only one that could make McDavid feel off-kilter, unsure of his footing.

And yeah, the idea of first is nice. Being wanted is nice. It’s human nature to seek validation. So that being said, it kind of sucked when the draft lottery happened and Buffalo said they _lost_ it. They even wanted to investigate Edmonton for like, fraud or something. Jack didn’t really want to look into it, but Fortunato being the asshole that he is kept sending Jack links to articles in the NTDP group chat. And it’s not even like, Buffalo is the creme de la creme. If they were, they wouldn’t have needed the first pick so badly-- they wouldn’t have needed Connor so badly.

Jack isn’t very religious, and the idea of being so thoroughly worshipped is scary.

Jack settles for Buffalo and Buffalo settles for him. Love is all about compromise, anyway.

 

*

 

When Buffalo calls his name, it’s a relief. Not because he’s excited, but he’s glad the saga is over. He hugs his family, basically obligatory. He tells his mom he loves her and he means it. There’s no point in saying things that aren’t true. The cheering is kind of deafening, and Jack doesn’t really understand why people go to the draft. Like, he gets watching it on TV, maybe. But actually going to the draft is weird. And he thinks it’d be different if it was in a real hockey market, like maybe Toronto or Boston or something. But it’s in Sunrise, Florida, and Jack thinks he’s going to start sweating through his suit.

He can barely see as he walks up the steps to the stage. There are too many lights flashing. He tries not to squint because his every move is being photographed, and he doesn’t want his face to be immortalized in an ugly grimace. So he musters up a smile and shakes the hand of a white man, and another white man, and another white man. He’s pretty sure one of the white men was Gary Bettman, but they’re all blending together at this point.

They hand him a Sabres jersey with his last name stitched across the back. He thumbs the neckline as he slips it on over his button up, and it feels like a promise. 

“Congratulations kid, welcome to the NHL,” one of them says. Jack says his obligatory thank you and shakes their hand. They hand him a hat and ask him if he wants to wear it, and he says yes because they do a good job of hiding his acne. He poses for the pictures and he’s being lead into a back room, presumably for interviews, which makes sense.

“Hey, wait, can I watch the next few picks?” He asks, to no one in particular.

“Sure, but don’t stay out there too long.”

He hears Strome’s name being called as he's being herded backstage, and if Strome is drafted, it means Noah will be soon. Noah should’ve gone third, anyway. He wants to see Noah try not to squint beneath the stage light, and the flush in his cheeks when they tell him he made it. He knows what Noah looks like when he’s won gold; wrung out and starry-eyed. Conversely, he knows what Noah looks like in love; glowing and breathless. It’s kind of scary, Jack thinks, how the two are so interchangeable to him. How loving and winning are the same thing.

The audio in the arena cuts out, and Noah looks confused. Jack wants to laugh but he stops himself because he actually kind of feels bad. But another part of him feels a bit vindictive, and that’s the bitter part of him, the part where Jack wonders how he can be so good at everything, at loving and winning, and it still not be enough. Noah stands up anyway, and Jack secretly wishes that his name hadn’t actually been called, and like, he justs looks like an idiot going up to a team that didn’t draft him. But the Canes would be as stupid as the Leafs and the Yotes to pass on Noah.

Jack stands at the corner of the stage in his Sabres jersey, and he reaches out as Noah walks past him. He’s well aware that there are cameras everywhere, that there’s a crowd watching them right now, so he doesn’t do anything stupid. At least, he thinks he doesn’t. It’s all a blur if he’s being honest. He grabs Noah by the wrist and tugs him close, patting him lightly on the back. It’s a typical bro hug, but Jack lets his chin rest in the crook of Noah’s neck for a fleeting moment, just to see what it would feel like.

“Congrats man, you deserve it,” Jack says quickly. He can’t be out there for this long, and he’s still holding onto Noah’s wrist.

Noah does a quick half shrug, paired with a shy smile. He looks like he’s seventeen again, nursing a Gatorade bottle in Milano’s backyard. Jack wonders where time has gone. If he can meet her again.

“Thanks, second overall. You too.” Then Noah’s onstage shaking hands with a white man, and another white man, and another white man that looks suspiciously like Gary Bettman, and another white man.

He looks good in red, Jack notes. He knows he has to get back inside to do that pretentious draft photoshoot, but Jack just wants one last glance at Noah. Take in the pink of his lips, the outline of his shoulders. It might be a while until they see each other again.

Noah wears the hat because he wants to.

 

*

 

The top prospects do a bunch of stupid shit and cameras follow them everywhere. He guesses he has to get used to it now. He's there with McDavid, Crouse, Marner, Stromer, and Noah. He only really hangs out with Noah, because the Canadians stick together. Marner hangs all over McDavid, like having his hand rest on his shoulder that long would like, give him McDavid’s talent through osmosis or some shit.

They bat for a while and Noah is wearing the most obnoxious Raybans, and he has this permanent pout on his face. Jack doesn’t know if he wants to kiss or punch it off of him. He thinks it would hurt either way.

 

 *

 

Jack and Noah go to Bianchi’s, a renowned pizza place in the heart of Boston. It was recommended by McAvoy who found it drunk at four AM, and Jack trusts drunk McAvoy’s judgment. Noah doesn’t really trust C Mac period, and Jack knows the skepticism comes from that time Mac hid all of Noah’s right shoes during World Juniors, but Noah comes anyway. He side eyes Jack the entire ride there as if Jack is going to steal his brand new Yeezys. Noah is such a tool, sometimes.

“One bite, everyone knows the rules,” Noah says, and Jack rolls his eyes.

Correction: Noah is such a tool, all the time.

“I give this place a ten,” Jack retaliates and takes four big bites. Noah scowls and kicks Jack beneath the table, and it actually kind of hurts, but he’s too busy laughing to notice.

“You clearly don’t know the rules.”

“I do; I just choose to ignore them.” Jack takes a sip of his Coke.

“Barstool is shit, anyway. You and Haysie are like fucking obsessed. I bet Kev would suck Davey’s dick if he asked.”

“It’s El Pres to you.”

“Is that really all you took from that?”

Noah shakes his head and stares at Jack for a moment. It’s kind of unnerving, and Jack resists the urge to squirm in his seat. He doesn’t want to get poetic about Noah’s eyes, because he’s been down that road before, but he has nice eyes. They’re framed by long lashes, and in the bright lighting of the pizzeria, they’re kind of icy. Kind of like if Jack touched Noah, he’d get hurt. Kind of like it isn’t a metaphor, because it’s Jack’s real life, because he’s been down that road before.

“You have something on your face,” he says, and Jack rubs at the corners of his lips because there is a slight possibility there is grease dripping, but Noah is smirking, so.

“Did I get it?” Jack furrows his eyebrows.

“No,” Noah responds, and he gestures again, to Jack’s face.

“It’s everywhere. On your forehead, your nose, you’re… just- oh, wait. It’s your entire face.”

Jack grimaces. “You are so unfunny.”

“Ha, ha,” Noah chortles. He drinks Jack’s Coke, which is annoying, because Noah always says he orders different drinks whenever he goes out to eat, but he always ends up drinking Jack’s Coke instead. “Think you can afford a new one?”

Jack frowns. “Isn’t your dad like, the mayor of Norwood?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”

“You go to BC. How else am I supposed to talk to you?”

Noah lets out a strangled scoff, and Jack smiles, because but that was pretty good. He feels pretty confident when he steals his cup back and downs the rest of it. Noah’s still pouting, but that’s just how he is. Jack knows that he didn’t hurt Noah’s feelings, because one: Jack’s pretty sure Noah has heard worse things on the ice, and two: Noah’s too vain for Jack to insult. At last, Noah settles on flipping Jack off in response.

“You can talk to me like you like me, you know. Also, are we even allowed to be eating pizza?”

“I don’t really like you, so, no.” Lie. “And, are you just going to throw away your pizza from this sudden revelation? Who cares.”

Noah makes a face. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you wanna fuck Coyle. So?” Jack doesn't mean for it to come out with such a bite, and he expects Noah to stiffen and leave, but Noah just smiles, slow and relaxed, like he’s impressed. _We’re okay_ , Jack thinks. He wants to mean it. He thinks he means it.

“Do you think he’ll ever come around?” is all Noah asks.

Jack shrugs. “I mean, you’re a cool guy. But if you’re worried that he won’t, it’s because he’s too dumb.”

“You’re still an asshole. Charlie went to BU, so where’s your excuse there?”

“Oh, it’s obviously the Weymouth air. Who grows up in Weymouth and comes out a normal human being?” Noah scoffs and narrows his eyes, shaking his head like he can’t believe Jack, which is understandable. Jack likes to think he’s pretty unbelievable.

It’s weird, though, talking so openly about how good Noah is after laying his heart out in the open. It’s a good kind of weird because it means that they are getting past it. Progress.

“I don’t know why we’re friends,” Noah concedes, but his mouth is full of pepperoni, so it’s disgusting. Jack thinks a person that cares so much about their appearance would have more manners, but you know what they say about assuming: it makes an ass out of Noah and Noah.

“Sorry I like, have a personality instead of being the boring shit that is McDavid.”

“Someone could hear you.”

“Well, everyone knows it!” Jack defends. Noah gives Jack his Jack face, which is to say it’s very disapproving. Jack likes that Noah has an expression reserved just for him, made because of him, even if it’s not a positive one. Jack likes things that are his, exclusively. It’s the thought that counts.

“You’re paying for this date.” Jack narrows his eyes.

“Who said this was a date?” Noah shrugs.

“I did.”

“You’re literally impossible,” Jack says, but he calls the waitress over for the bill, anyway.

She’s pretty, Jack notes, tan with dark eyes and long hair. Her name is Abby. Virtually out of his league, but he played hockey in this city, and he sees her eyeing him like she knows him from somewhere, so Jack knows he has some pull.

He signs off on the receipt and leaves a ten dollar tip. He debates leaving his number on it, just to see how far he can push his luck, but he looks up and sees Noah trying to get the rest of Jack’s ice out of the cup and into his mouth via straw, failing miserably. Two ice cubes fall into his lap and he makes a high pitched shriek, frantically pushing them off of his lap. And like nothing ever happened, he asks Jack what’s taking him so long because he wants to see his sister before she heads off to one of her soccer games.

Jack adds an extra five and they leave.

 

*

 

Boston loses the final. It’s a consolation prize.

 

*

 

Jack wins the Hobey. Freshman year hasn’t been a blur exactly, but it still feels like he just signed his letter of intent. The award feels lighter than he imagined it would, and he makes a minute long speech about hard work and sacrifice. The speech is what’s a blur, honestly. He loves Boston, this, he knows. The haphazard grid system, the harbor, the people. He loves hockey, this, he knows. The sound of a goal horn, tape to tape passes, an arena screaming his name.

He holds the award in one hand, eyes trained on his engraved name. He thinks, is this love or is it gold?

 

*

 

Some days, Jack thinks about things he can’t have. He thinks about going first, he thinks about the fact that he’s lactose intolerant, he thinks about the callouses on Noah’s hands, he thinks about cats. He thinks about the future, too. He wants to buy a big house on a large plot of land. He’d probably be lonely, but it’d be his.

Jack doesn’t believe in fate or destiny or prophecies. He doesn’t like things he has no control over. He focuses on the facts- what’s in front of him. He sees two hundred feet of ice. In the end, it’s all that matters. Left right left right left right left right. His strides are strong and purposeful, and his thighs start to burn from exertion. He welcomes the pain with open arms.

Some days, Jack thinks it’s the only thing that loves him back.

 

*

 

Jack and Noah are at the All American Prospects Game. Jack hasn’t seen Noah in months, and they’re… okay, he thinks. He scores the game-winning goal, his team beats Noah’s 6-3, and it makes up for it.

“Hey,” Noah says, and gives Jack a fist bump. Jack smiles.

“Hey.”

“And I thought I was the biggest attention whore in this building.”

“Why would I let you win anything?”

Noah slaps Jack on the back of the head, and Jack laughs loudly and feels it in his chest.

“I’ll see you later, asshole.”

They don’t see each other for months after that, but it’s a start.

 

*

_Jack: Hey srry_ _4 being an_ asswhole _._

_Noah: Go to sleep_

_Jack: You don’t wanna talk too me??_

_Noah: Its 3 in the morning and youre_ _probably drunk so no_

_J_ _ack:_ hahahaha _I am drunk_ yu _know me so well._

_Noah: Go to sleep_

_Jack: I miss you._

_Noah: Go to sleep_

_Jack: We’re good._

 

*

 

Jack is brushing his teeth when he picks up Noah’s call. He doesn’t even mean to, but he’s half asleep and running on autopilot.

“Hey,” Jack croaks into the phone, and he doesn’t want to acknowledge the crack in his voice.

“Hey,” Noah says back, and it’s too breathy. It’s like he didn’t expect Jack to pick up, and Jack hadn't expected to either. Jack spits his toothpaste into the sink and waits before responding.

“You called?”

“Oh, yeah.” There’s a pause and some shuffling. “You haven’t been picking up, so… I just wanted to. Check-in, I guess?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“For three weeks?” Noah challenges. “Jesus, Jack. I fucking saw you on the Cape!”

“Oh, so you’re stalking me now?” Noah groans and Jack flinches.

“No, I’m trying to be a mature adult and talk to you. Jack, I thought we were good. You said we were good.”

“Yeah, well, people say things they don’t mean. You should know that.”

Noah hangs up shortly after that.

 

*

 

Jack sits in his childhood bedroom and ignores Noah’s call. He feels weightless, pointless, hopeless. He thinks about Boston and Ann Arbor, Finland and Sweden and all the moments in between.

The teenage heart is a fragile thing.

He thinks, how could I not have seen this coming? How could I love a boy with all my heart and still not be enough? Jack sits in his childhood bedroom, and he doesn’t wallow for what could’ve been.

If this is what love feels like, hearing your favorite song and thinking of the way his eyes crinkles when he smiles, packing an extra toothbrush because you know he always leaves his at home, Jack doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t want to have to deal with kissing in dark rooms and looking at the back of Noah's head because Noah's looking at someone else. Or worse, Noah's looking back. He doesn’t want to deal with love, because he knows what comes after.

Heartbreak.

Because Jack has been down that road so many times he could navigate it with his eyes closed, he knows the type of gravel it was paved with. He’s a boy made of half-empty promises and missed calls, a boy who treats the word second like a nickname. Good but not good enough, his but not his enough, Jack knows that nothing good ever comes out of giving anything meaning.

Naming things only make it harder to let go.

 

*

 

_Noah: We’re good right_

_Noah: ?_

_Jack: Yeah we’re good_.

 

*

 

Knowing and wanting are two different things. Jack knows Noah, Jack wants Noah, Jack goes home.

 

*

 

It’s quiet afterward.

“You know I didn’t... like…” Noah starts. “We’re friends, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack confirms.

“I have Charlie. Back home. So, I don’t wanna…”

“Can you complete a sentence?”

Noah colors. “I mean… Charlie and I aren’t together, but we will be, eventually. So if you and I start anything, it won’t last, really. And I just thought you should know.” Noah makes it sound like he’s doing a favor by breaking Jack’s heart. Jack doesn’t say anything, but he thinks, _thank you_.

 

*

 

Jack isn’t drunk. He’s tipsy, maybe, but the way Noah’s looking at him makes him feel light on his feet. They’ve stumbled back into Jack’s hotel room, and Jack’s not really sure where his roommate is. He shouldn’t be thinking about his roommate, anyway.

He should be thinking about the way Noah’s peppering kisses down the expanse of his neck. Their medals are still hanging around their necks. They clink together as Jack and Noah fall back onto his bed, and it sounds like a sweet melody. Noah grins down at him, almost predatorily, baring all of his teeth. Jack smiles slowly back.

“I fucking love you,” Noah says, and places one last kiss on Jack’s medal.

There is no arena screaming Jack’s name. There is no clink from a bar down shot. There is blood rushing to Jack’s ears, there’s the taste of copper in his mouth. _It will do,_ Jack thinks. It has to.

 

*

 

There are a lot of expectations on them. They’re the United States, they’re the world powers, they’re the boys with something to prove. They’re five goals, five goal horns, they’re a flag. They are two boys standing shoulder to shoulder, singing the national anthem until their lungs give out. They are two boys- one gives his heart to the future in a box labeled handle with care, one gives his heart to the future with blood on his hands.

Jack looks at Noah and sees the stars.

Noah looks at Jack and sees a target.

 

*

 

There’s an unofficial official team bonding get together at Milano’s billet before the first day of practice. For Jack, it’s time to flesh out the new faces- the kids with chips on their shoulders. There is only a handful of them, four to be exact: Dougherty, Gersich, Hanifin, and Matthews. Hanifin is from Massachusetts, and Massholes have to stick together, so Jack approaches him cautiously. He doesn’t want to scare him away.

He’s bigger than Jack, not by much, but the difference is still there. He’s kind of beautiful, Jack notes. Attractive in the movie star sort of way, with side swept blonde hair and blue eyes. Jack wants to be poetic, but the only metaphor his eyes reminds him of is the blue of the Gatorade in Noah’s hand, so he refrains. He’ll think of a better one later. Hanifin grips the bottle like a lifeline, and Jack walks up to him.

“Hey, I’m Jack,” he says. Hanifin reaches out for a handshake, but he realizes that it’s dumb midway and tries to switch to a fist bump, but it’s too late. They awkwardly collide and are left laughing sheepishly at what could’ve been. 

“I know.”

“You’re Hanifin.” The corners of Hanifin’s lips tug. An omen.

“I guess so.”

“We’re gonna be great, you know.” A prophecy. Jack reaches past him into the ice cooler, grabbing a bottle of water. Hanifin laughs.

“Is that a promise?”

“What else would it be?” Noah blinks, and tilts his head, a smile blossoming.

The beginning.

 

_fin._


End file.
